


Overture in Orange Roses

by euromagpie



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, just a fluffy little shoot thing but no actual touchy touchy sorry, shaw has trouble with Feelings, sleepy root, this is so schmoopy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-26 04:05:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9861731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euromagpie/pseuds/euromagpie
Summary: Shaw has flowers and feelings, and tries to get rid of both.





	

Their latest number, the florist, is ridiculously happy to have been saved from her assailants – something something loansharks blah blah, Sameen had been more focussed on dodging bullets and keeping the number safe than the whys, whos and wherefors. Still, the florist had stumbled over herself thanking Sameen – in fact, she’d seemed a little dazed, her eyes following Sameen’s every step. Maybe the florist had hoped to pay Sameen back in a little more of a personal way, but Sameen was tired, and hungry and _really_ in need of a drink. If the florist – Laura, Lara, L-something – had offered her a bottle of Tennessee Whiskey, she would have accepted with great gusto. Yet, no alcohol was forthcoming. Instead, Sameen had a large bouquet of sweet-smelling flowers shoved in her arms, and the number just wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.

In the end, Sameen rolled her eyes and left the number, now safe, at the door to her apartment, Laura-Lara gazing besotted as she walked away.

Honestly, Sameen wasn’t thinking much about the flowers, or what she’d do with them – her mind was full of hazy images of soft bedding and digestive-issue-causing sandwiches, but she’d settle for a few granola bars and the pallet bed they had back at the subway, so she made her way there, not unlike a sleep-deprived homing pigeon heading home to roost.

She made it there in one piece and without having assaulted anyone who had bumped into her, which was always an occasion to be celebrated with Sameen. Still, the agent in her never took off-time, and she still carefully scanned her surroundings before making her way through Finch’s convoluted security systems that would make James Bond cry. It _was_ kind of fun though; the ISA never went in for camera pens or entrances hidden behind vending machines. Pushing in the change, Sameen hummed the Mission Impossible theme tune under her breath.

The subway is quiet – Finch isn’t there, for once, but it’s a Sunday night, and Professor Whistler has lectures tomorrow morning. Reese is there, though, lanky and long-limbed, sitting on the floor and throwing Bear’s ball as the dog scrambles happily to pick it up, bringing it back to his master. Reese seems happy to pick up the slobbery ball – he’s had his hands in far worse things – and throwing it repetitively for him. Like this, Sameen could almost imagine him as a normal guy, with a normal 9-5 job.

“Shaw. You okay?”

“Yes, _mom_. Go to bed, will you? Your face is giving me a headache just looking at it.” Reese just shrugged, and there goes the Normal Guy illusion, as his eyes expertly scanned her body, looking for any injuries she might have excused or glossed over. She rolled her eyes. The monitors in the car show live footage from the traffic cameras outside Professor Whistler’s home – Reese is always on edge when the perpetrators in their cases aren’t killed. Always on alert in case their team is targeted in a revenge act, but always, _always_ watchful over Finch, especially if he had to go in the field, like today. Oh, Finch’s involvement had been peripheral at best, but hey Sameen wasn’t going to try to untangle the weird co-dependent _thing_ Reese and Finch had.

Tired as she was, she missed John’s curious look at the flowers in her hand, as she stalked past him and to the large office space they had cleared of boxes and rubbish to make room for rudimentary bedding.

“Shaw-“ Reese tried to warn.

Sameen froze at the entryway to the ‘bedroom’. Right there, in the middle of the blanket-swamped inflated mattress bed, was Root. She looked, god help her, _innocent_ , stripped down to what looked like undies and a large jumper and – were those _Sameen’s socks_? She tried to feel irritated, angry at the invasion of her privacy, but her mind was taken up with the heavy feeling in her chest. She vaguely wondered if she was having a heart-attack, but the medical evidence was inconclusive. She couldn’t pull her eyes away from the way the oily subway lights caught in Root’s chestnut hair, creating golden highlights as the tresses spilled across the pillow. Where _Shaw_ slept.

The weight on her chest seemed to increase, and Shaw couldn’t stop the sudden, uninvited, picture that formed in her mind. She’d shuck off her boots and coat and slide into bed next to Root, enjoy the familiar, _safe_ warmth of a body next to her without the doubt of wondering if she was going to be attacked in the middle of the night. She’d turn her face into Root’s hair, tuck her nose, cold from the frigid weather, into the back of her neck, wrap her arms around her waist snugly. She’d burrow her hands under the thick jumper and warm herself on the hot skin of Root’s belly. The next morning she’d wake to Root having turned to face her, wake to her brown eyes studying her, that infuriating half-smirk painted across her face. Root would lift a hand and brush Sameen’s own inky strands aside. Root would make some flirtatious, patronising comment, start the day with a ‘sweetie’ or ‘honey’.

Shaw might even give her the flowers.

Without a word, Shaw spun on her heels. Viciously, she thrust the bouquet at John, who stared blankly at the flowers pressing into his nose (she knew that tomorrow they would be sitting at Finch’s desk and he’d pretend not to be pleased). Bear trotted up to her and stuck his nose at her thigh, staring up at her with wide black eyes as though to say ‘ _Stay. Stay here with us. With her.’_

The weight on her chest was becoming suffocating and she pushed past Bear, deaf to his pitiful whines. She snagged Reese’s ammo bag as she headed out, into the frigid air.

That night she spent at an abandoned warehouse, emptying magazines into wooden boxes, and not thinking of hot skin and golden highlights.


End file.
